


Next Week

by meginatree



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Power Imbalance, Underage Sex, vague mentions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meginatree/pseuds/meginatree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose is young and she is desperate she finally concludes in her own self analysis. Desperate for love, desperate for attentions and she catches him staring a second too long at the gap between her skirt and her socks, the way he studies the curve of her throat and she feels a warmth that she thinks is what the other girls describe when they talk about boys their own age. She wants love, she wants attention and she knows she only has to step over the line to get it.</p>
<p>So she takes that step.</p>
<p>Or;</p>
<p>How Rose Lalonde bit into a bitter apple and fell from grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Week

**Author's Note:**

> Rose is very very young in this piece, around 11 for it, and this is a piece of very dubious consent due to her age. Please, if it's not your thing, click out.

She's only eleven when they first meet. Eleven and small for her age, breasts barely there, hips still boyish and limbs long. In her summer uniform she waits outside his office, the room silent except for the water cooler that gurgles in one corner and the receptionist that taps away at her keyboard. And Rose sits as still as a statue, pale hands clasped gently in her lap, her legs crossed demurely.

Had her schoolwork not slipped from perfect A+'s to A-'s she doubt her parents would have even noticed her developing insomnia. She loves her mother and father, she really does but they are both at the age where they are more interested in enjoying the last years of their own lives over helping her in hers. But to ignore the problem is something even they can't do.

So the therapist it is.

The door opens soundlessly and Rose glances from the corner of her eye to the two that stand in the doorway. A woman older than her, eyes ringed red and a man even older, dark hair turned more salt than pepper, the glimpse of suspenders under his suit jacket. They speak in murmurs and finally the woman leaves and the man's attention falls to her, Rose fully aware that his eyes wander over her Rose not entirely sure what that makes her feel like.

Miss Lalonde, I presume, he says, his voice a rich baritone that would send a shiver down her spine were she not so set on her imitation of a statue. With her nod he smiles, like a cat who's caught the canary and she finds her heart beating a little faster despite her stillness. Come in then.

She rises gracefully, platinum blonde hair whispering over her shoulders as she picks her bag up, the ends meeting at her waist. And under his eye she crosses the floor of his waiting room, her shoulder nearly brushing his chest as she passes him and she can smell his cologne, a dark woody scent that quickens her heart again.

The door clicks when it shuts and somehow Rose knows that nothing will be the same again.

***

The sessions start off ordinary, covering what Rose can only assume are the usual bases. Her mother, her father, how does she feel about them how does she feel about this and that. She finds her answers monosyllabic, curt and careful because even at eleven Rose is a carefully guarded girl trusting not even herself. Not completely. She is a girl who has already found the attention given to her lacking, her need for love wanting.

She loves her parents, she assures him, and they love her. They give her everything that she could ever want, they just have their own business to attend, it's not surprising they have little attention to spare for her, a child of late life, an accident in the end. He hums softly, speaking in that oaky voice, so perhaps not everything, and she finds herself shifting on the couch she lays on, hands laid placidly over her stomach.

Perhaps.

What does she dream of, he asks. Death she says, staring at the ceiling. Death in so many ways, of punctures to her torso, of a bile that chokes and devours her till she's nothing, just a hollowed out shell. Explosions, fiercely green and burning away everything, burning pale creamy skin, searing off fair lashes and the feeling of her organs cooking. She dreams of death and she supposes that's what keeps her up every night, keeps her fighting the sandman. After all, she is eleven, young and sweet, too young to dream of corpses.

Over time it changes though. They talk of her developing body, of the thoughts she finds herself both having and lacking. They talk of the way she doesn't feel like the other girls of her classes, how she lacks that curiosity of boys that they all seem to have. He smiles that smile he gave her the day they began this all and Rose feels a thrum of warmth spread through her body from heart to fingertips. Perhaps that is for the best, he says. After all boys her age are still boys. She is still young, still tender and fragile and oh how he'd hate to see her heart get trampled by the carelessness of young boys.

She finds herself contemplating him more and more. The grey that flecks through his hair, concentrated at his temples to the way his thin lips seem to promise her both grace and destruction, an apple she only has to reach out and take willingly. His fingers are long, and she watches them curl around his pen as he takes notes through their sessions and she finds them wondering what they would feel like on her soft skin, what they would feel like crooked inside her, her own smaller fingers a weak imitation.

Rose is young and she is desperate she finally concludes in her own self analysis. Desperate for love, desperate for attentions and she catches him staring a second too long at the gap between her skirt and her socks, the way he studies the curve of her throat and she feels a warmth that she thinks is what the other girls describe when they talk about boys their own age. She wants love, she wants attention and she knows she only has to step over the line to get it.

So she takes that step.

They're months into her treatment when she crosses the floor one day, breaking their conversation suddenly. He's silent as he watches her, lets her lift the notepad off his lap and replace it with her own small body. One of his hands press against her waist, steading her, emboldening her with courage and she presses pale plump lips to his thinner ones chastely. For a moment he is still, and she wonders if she got it all wrong and then something in him breaks in a slow shudder and soft exhale and his hand is on the back of her head, threading between the silky strands as he kisses back without her hesitance, taking the lead from her and she can't help the soft mewl that escapes her when he coaxes her mouth open, his tongue warm as it slips along hers and there is electricity running down her spine.

He brings her to orgasm twice before the end of the session, his face still perfectly calm, his hair untoussled as her own cheeks flush pink and she bucks against the two fingers he slips inside her, strokes carefully over her slick inner walls, bringing her close and closer to the brink before slipping away until she breaks and begs, begs for an end because she's slipping into insanity, her skin too tight, too warm and she feels like she really will fall apart if he doesn't. She shudders, faces pressed to the crook of his neck and his free hand strokes through her hair gently, his voice a low murmur that only makes her fires burn higher, his words kindling to her. So tight, so slick, my lovely Rose, so beautiful, my darling, so beautiful, now come, come, come, and she can't help but obey with a gasp as she clamps around his fingers, her own clinging to his shirt to ground her as she shakes through the bursts of dizzying pleasure and heat.

He coaxes her over to the arm of the chair before she can even attempt to reciprocate, and she can see that he is just as ruined as she is, a swell in his pants that make the fabric tight. She moves to touch and he lets her, eyes closing briefly as her hand presses over the bulge, fingers light as she maps him out, and he catches her hand lifts it away and then he's unzipping himself, his cock a hard curve that sends another shiver of aftershock through her and he shush her before she can speak, guiding her hand around him, his own warm, larger as it covers it and he shows her to stroke, to pump, groans as her thumb presses against his frenulum, slides slickly over the slit and smears precum and it's not long before he comes, holding his breath for a moment, his cum coming out in short spurts that drip down her hand and Rose thinks she could orgasm once more and all he'd have to do is run a finger along her slit. Instead he takes her hand, gentle as he wipes it clean with a handkerchief, pressing a kiss to her temples and Rose feels herself sink against him, feels her body sated with it's craving for love and attention and yes, yes she is a good girl, a beautiful girl, his girl, all the things he murmurs to her.

She lets him straighten her up, moving as if she's still in a dream, his hands professional as he pulls her panties back up, Rose biting back a moan as she feels the cotton stick to her. He combs her hair back out with his fingers, resetting her headband before he straightens her skirt and his hands linger on her waist as he presses lips to her throat and the clock in the corner chimes and their time is up, her mother will be here in minutes to pick her up.

Till next week, Miss Lalonde, he says, and he is the cat, she the canary and she is hopelessly entangled in this web he has woven for her even as her own lips quirk at the corners.

Till then, Doctor.

***

Their sessions continue to pass like this, his hands wandering over her form and Rose often finding herself blissed out and curled against his torso as his fingers work her own work her to the highest peaks before she tumbles over, and continuing to work her through the fall into the next rise. With time her own hands grow more confident as she learns the best way to reciprocate his touches, the places that make him hiss softly through clenched teeth and his fingertips leave bruises on her hipbones. Little marks to treasure in the confines of her room, to trace her smaller digits over as she studies them in the mirror.

He's the first to give her the lipstick she will continue to wear, a tube of dark purple, near black. The smile is on his lips as he paints hers, with slow measured movements. Rose in turn stays as still as one of the porcelain dolls her father got for her in her youth, prim and perfect and only movable by his hands. Hands that slide slowly in the long strands of her hair, as he chuckles and encourages her to kneel, the zip of his pants echoing in her mind as he undoes and pushes them down, his cock hard, the head dangerously close to her cheek.

Let's make a game of it he says, running his thumb under her bottom lip, gentle when he draws her chin down. Let's see how far you can go, and we can use the lipstick to mark your progress. So begins her education in oral, a task Rose remains uncertain of her enjoyment. He's warm on her tongue, pressing both down on it and up against her palette and he tastes of salt and something else.They start off slow, her head lifted so she can hold his gaze as he encourages her, nice slow licks, now mind your teeth and suck, excellent, excellent darling girl, now try and take a little more.

She's easy to push into more, a stubborn pride set in her bones and more than once she finds herself taking too much, the tip of his cock pressed uncomfortably against the back of her throat and she chokes, gags, saliva dripping down her chin, tears forming in her eyes. There's an ache in her jaw, a burning in her throat, in her lungs and each breath is a gasp around him. Eyes closed she misses the way his smile seems to grow but she feels the way his cock twitches on her tongue, hears his breathing grow laboured and she knows that there is a part of him that enjoys seeing her struggle with this task, a part that enjoys being reminded just how innocent she is despite her attempts to act more mature.

He cums while still in her mouth, his warning soft and not enough to truly prepare herself. She coughs and his seed spills from her lips and he tuts at her, fingers under her chin as he tilts her head back and she gazes back with watering eyes, breathing far more ragged than his. He chides her in his quiet voice, so wasteful Miss Lalonde, even as his fingers sweep over her chin, his cum smeared on her skin as he pushes it back to her lips and when his fingers slip between them she obediently wraps her mouth around them, lifts her tongue to lap at the digits. Swallow he says, and she does, swallows down the salty phlegmy mess in her throat, swallows his seed and thinks that she can almost feel it sitting in her stomach. Her eyes fall on his cock, growing soft and she is disappointed to see that the mark of purple is not even half way. A disappointing first attempt.

He kisses her cheek, skin still sticky as he lifts her onto his couch, long fingers peeling away her panties, leaving them hanging off one slim ankle as he spreads her thighs and slips down between them. A reward, he says, for being such a very good girl. His good girl, his darling Rose. His tongue touches her cunt, bare of hair still and her first cry escapes her unmuffled. He draws back at that, brow raised and she swallows her panic that he might deprive her of this pleasure. Instead he just tuts again, taking her hand and moving it to her mouth. We must be quiet now Miss Lalonde, you don't want this to end so quickly do you? There is still so much to learn after all.

She shakes her head quickly, hair rasping against the leather of the couch and he smirks, cat that got the cream, the canary, cat that got everything he could ever want and with another soft murmur of good girl he slips back down, his hands cool on her thighs as he holds her open, stubble rasping, dragging, over the soft skin of her thighs and this time she catches her noises in the palm of her hand as he laps at her opening, tongue dragging from bottom to top, the tip teasing across her clit in quick short laps that send a pulse of electricity through her very core. Her fingers grow slick with her own saliva as they slip between her lips and she muffles herself around her, hips arching to meet him as his tongue slips inside her, one hand slipping from her thigh to pinch her clit and his tongue curls and Rose feels as if she was struck by lightening, convulsing against him, crying out around her fingers and there is nothing but perfect pure white and a burn that spreads through her.

When she comes back into herself he has already left her, hand gentle as it strokes up and down her thigh, a grounding touch. She shifts with a soft whine and he shushes her, shifting again to slip her panties back on, lifting her hips with ease. He stays like this, curled over her, studying her face with an expression she can't read and then he kisses her. Rose tastes herself on his lips, her tongue and it prompts another groan, prompts the curious thought of if he can taste her too. She'd contemplate it more if he didn't pull back, patting her thigh gently, now go and get cleaned up Miss Lalonde, we wouldn't want to be sending you out o your mother in such a state. She obeys as she always does, straightening her skirt, tucking her blouse back in as she crosses the floor to his private bathroom.

Studying her face in the memory she's calm, even taking in the smear of dark purple from the corner of her lips, which look swollen even under the paint. The sticky shine of the last of his cum on her cheeks and she bends, cupping water in her small hands to wash the marks off. When she straightens he's behind her, brush in hand and he hands her a small towel to wipe the water away as he begins to run the bristles through her hair, separating strands with practiced ease and for the first time since this all began she's aware that she is not the first. She is not the first to buck against his fingers or to feel the heavy warmth of him on her tongue or the feel of his own mouth against her most private of places. And she's almost certain she won't be the last.

She is just the most recent.

She's silent as he brushes her hair out, still as a statue until he places his hands on her shoulders, presses a kiss to the crown of her head. And Rose tilts back into it, her eyes closing as his baritone washes over her, words pressed to her hair.

Till next week, Miss Lalonde. We will have much to discuss.

Of course Doctor. Till next week.

***

It's raining the day he takes her virginity. She wonders at one point if that is symbolic of something or if she's just looking for metaphors where there is nothing. But the sound of rain on the glass of the windows is soothing and Rose finds her eyes closing as she lays back against the couch, feels him settle over her a warm familiar weight. Winter is creeping closer and he hasn't yet turned up the heating and she curls closer as he presses against her, one leg curling over his hip, black thigh high stocking hiding her skin.

Usually he does not undress her besides the bare necessities, for practical reasons he says, though she is almost certain that it is also his favouritism of seeing her in her school skirts that encourages this decision But today he undoes her blouse, slips it off her slim frame and sets it aside, sets the camisole she wears under it aside and her skirt on top. He is slow today, full of adoring touches, fingers stroking along her bare skin, pressing against her ribs his thumbs nudging her nipples. She does not have breasts yet, not truly, just the slightest extra fat there and yet he nuzzles her skin, presses kisses and gentle nips over her skin. Gorgeous, he says, absolutely perfect. And she flushes pink, the colour spreading down her throat, across her décolletage . It only makes him smirk.

She bites her lip as his lips seal around one dusky pink nipple, both of them peaked in the room's coolness. And she bites harder when he sucks firmly around it, her spine arching as she meets him, her cry muffled in her throat. But he knows her body too well now and she feels him chuckle against her skin, an arm slipping under her back to support her as he continues to tease, sucking and lapping and nipping and her chest is a map of marks, bright red on her pale skin and she hopes to all the gods that they'll leave bruises, so that she can look at them every night until her next appointment.

Her whine is both one of disappointment and impatience as he slips lower, planting kisses over her belly where the fat of childhood still clings and she feels herself quiver, her belly clenching with need and want and she is an awfully greedy child. Patience he says, lips pressed to her skin in a mockery of veneration and she swallows, forcing fingers to uncurl from fists. Patience, my darling Rose, after all, good things come to those who wait. And you want to be a good girl, don't you?

I do, she says and her tongue feels clumsy against her teeth. I do, please.

Then patience. He says nothing more, nothing less and tilts his gaze away from her and she swallows her next whine. Still he teases her, hands slipping from her back to her waist, dragging red lines to her hips and he holds her down as he kisses along the bones of her hips and still she tries to arch and meet his mouth, her exhale strained as he chuckles again and she moans as his teeth sink into tender flesh and she's grounded again, grounded by the pain that make tears spring to her eyes and her cunt grow a little wetter.

His teeth release her and her exhale is more of a shuddering gasp than anything else but there's no chance to rest as he slips lower, fingers curling in lavender panties as he pulls them down her thighs. A pause here to brush a hand over her childish knees and then he returns to his task, her underwear discarded on top of the pile of her clothes. His eyes rove under her and she fidgets, left only in thick high black socks, articles of clothing he allows only because it covers nothing of significance and the lighting is dim but she almost swears that his smile is all teeth and not warm affection.

She's felt his mouth on her more than a dozen times by now but it still makes her jump, uncurling slowly as he works her open with tongue, with fingers that slip inside her and spread her open her legs over his shoulders and Rose muffles herself with her hand, feeling warmth spread out over her body. He's torturously slow, careful and precise as he preps her and she should be thankful, most girls would not have such a dedicated partner for their first time, but he keeps her hovering on the precipice of orgasm and she loathes him for it, him and his cat smile.

It will sting, he says, lifting his head, slipping her legs down and instinctively she curls them around his hips. She nods, words lost to her in this haze and she arches as his hand runs over one thigh. It will sting and she will ache because she is still tiny and there's only so much he can prepare her, she understands. She understands and she acknowledges what he doesn't say, that there will be a part of him that will enjoy watching her struggle to take him, will enjoy the way her eyes water. The same part of him that enjoys watching her gag and choke around his cock, her ability to take him deeper increasing by bare centimetres with each attempt, never quite as much as she wants it to.

He presses against her, the blunt head of his cock so very different to the slim tapers of his long fingers and Rose swallows, eyes half lidded as she fights the instinct to tense. His hands slip over her thighs, his thumb a slow steady stroke over and up her groin before settling on her hips, holding her in place as he rocks again. This is different so different to the time that he slicked her inner thighs up, held them tight and fucked between them, leaving a damp stain on her skirt she had to explain as being clumsy with a glass of water. But the butterflies are all the same and she shudders as one hand leaves her hand and he guides himself in, a insistent push against her until something in her gives and he's inside her, the head of his cock stretching her open. And Rose keens, tears in her eyes at the stretch and he shushes her, sliding deeper as he presses kisses to her eyelids, to her nose, her cheeks before hungrily laying claim to her lips.

Good girl, he says and she shudders, toes curling hip arching and for once he groans. The sound is soft, almost missable but her body floods with heat and she knows what she wants, knows what he wants to hear, her voice soft and sweet, deeper, Doctor, deeper please. And he groans again, the sound pressed to her jaw and Rose shudders as he sheathes himself in her. A horrid metaphor, but the first to come to mind and many ways she does feel like he's cutting her open from the inside, eyes still watering, an ache that spreads down the paths of her adductors and yet she embraces the pain, embraces the sting her breathing ragged.

He lets her rest momentarily, hands gentle as he strokes her thighs, touches her waist and drags fingers under her waist. He is a patient man, a virtue he's still trying to instill in her. But finally even his patience must die and it does as her breathing evens out, his body shifting above her. Eyes closed she lets herself imagine his face, imagine that he's actually showing expressions as he starts to fuck her, toes curling with each little grunt that escapes her. So tight, my darling, he says, hand holding her thigh back and she mewls like a newborn kitten, clenches tight when he chuckles at her. So tight and so perfect and his fingers find her clit, pinching and rubbing the little nub of nerves with a practiced touch and she continues to feel as if she's splitting open and the feeling only grows and she can feel one of her hands clamp around his wrist blunt nails into skin. The other covers her mouth and she chokes around it as she cums, pain and pleasure both racing through as she clenches tight around him.

He fucks her through the aftershocks and she's limp, boneless on the couch, more rag doll than porcelain. But she watches him now, watches through long pale lashes that distort his face. Like this she can almost imagine his expression is one of pure adoration and love and not something so much baser like carnal pleasure. She admires the way his hair still stays in it's perfect style, the way pink seems to flush over his cheeks and down his throat to hide under his shirt. Like this he's more human, more like that and she's not sure what that makes her feel like. To be reminded that he's human, just like her, just like everyone else and humans are flawed.

His fingers still work over her and she feels pleasure swell again in her, stinging and sharp like ever clench around him and Rose knows that tomorrow she will wake up sore and aching and that just make her clench tighter. Makes him grunt in a guttural way and his hands grip her hip so tight she feels they may shatter under his touch. Perhaps that would be the best. Perhaps she has to break this body to build a better one, a better her. But he grinds in her and her second orgasm takes her by surprise, slamming into her like his hips slam against her skin and she can feel him shake against her even as she swallows a cry and feels her body burn.

She likes to imagine that his cum burns as it spills inside her but in truth she barely notices it. Doesn't truly notice anything until he slips free and she feels so very empty, empty and alone and there's a sob in her throat she has to choke down. Now she feels his seed, feels it slip out of her only to be caught by his fingers, fingers that guide the mess back inside her followed by a voice that tells her to clench. It's a gift Miss Lalonde, and you don't want to lose any of my gifts now do you.

She nods, throat thick and dry and there's a glint in his eye when he smirks, admiring the way her hips squirm as she does her best not to let anything more slip out as he redresses her, panties first then camisole, white fabric to hide the red marks of nails and teeth, to hide the bruises on her hips and her whole body aches, aches for more but he kisses her temple, leaves her to finish dressing as he tucks himself back into his pants.

When she stands she feels his cum slip out of her, soaking a wet spot in her panties and she shudders under the hand against the back of her neck, the hand that lifts blonde locks away from her skin. He's smiling, she can feel it now and she's burning but she's also ice, and shockingly empty, a hollowed out cocoon but she's not sure she's the butterfly that's supposed to emerge.

Take care in the rain, Miss Lalonde. We wouldn't want you to miss next week's appointment.

She shudders, her steps away from him unsure and shaky like a newborn foal's.

Of course. I look forward to it, Doctor.

***

She supposes she should have seen this coming. And in a way she did, did from the very day she stood in that bathroom, the taste of his seed still lingering on her tongue. Should have seen in the way he frowned at her developing breasts, the stray curls that grew between her legs. The same frown that forms when she can take him in her throat without a gag, saw it when he pulled free of her lips. She's growing up, she's learning and becoming less and less naive and innocent with every day. That had been part of what had drawn him to her, like a moth to flame. The small body was nothing without the innocence to sexual acts.

He's done so much to her. He's made her buck on his fingers, watched her gag around him, saliva spilling down her chin. He's rutted between her thighs, spread her open and fucked both her cunt and her ass. She still remembers the burn to both even if she now seems to open up easily under slick fingers. He's bound her to her chair, white ropes forming elegant knots and filled her with silicone that vibrates in strange patterns she can never predict. At nearly twelve Rose finds herself knowing more about sex, more about her own body than she thinks some women in their fifties would. And innocence becomes hard to fake, her eyes losing that shine.

She mentions the fact she had her first period a few days ago, brings it up out of hand and regrets it almost instantly. She can almost see the last of his interest in her fade, his fingers pausing under her skirt. He is courteous enough to finish what he started, to crook his fingers inside her and press against that spot that always makes her break but this orgasm is bittersweet. She finds herself crying, silent as tears slip down her cheeks and at least he still has sympathy enough for her that he shushes her quietly, runs fingers through her hair. It never was going to last, he says and that baritone rips apart her fragile heart. It was never going to last and it would be better to end this now than keep it dragging out.

She almost wants to laugh in his face, laugh and remind him how he once spoke of keeping her heart safe from young boys who would only trample it. A pity he did not warn her of old men who smiled like the chesire cat, of long fingers and clever tongues. In the end she should have been out on the watch for them, not young boys who would have found themselves just as clumsy in matters of the heart as she was. She had been so easily tricked and yet she wishes she could remain in these delusions, to continue to think he truly cares about her, that she is in fact his favourite, his darling.

Rose slips from his lap, carefully straightens her skirt, runs her fingers through her hair and wipes the tears from her eyes. His hands stay flat against the arm rests and she finds herself missing his touch, an ache deep in her heart that she can't allow herself to give into. Instead she lets the tears cling to her lashes but never fall as she leans down, presses pale pink lips to his cheek before turning to leave, emptiness all around her.

Goodbye Rose.

Goodbye Doctor.

***

The next day she cuts her hair, cuts it from it's waist length curls to a pixie cut, then paints her lips with the colour he gave her. It may be a colour he gave her but she can claim it back, she can find strength in it and recall all he ever taught her. But with those curls goes the last of her innocence and Rose Lalonde swears she will never let herself be used like that by another, ever again.

And yet, somewhere deep inside her she knows there's still a part of that little girl, curled up and sad. And one day she'll have to face her.

But not today.

Next week. Perhaps.

 


End file.
